


Half truths

by katiebuttercup



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Angst, England has feels, F/M, France has feels, Shoulda Woulda Coulda, What Ifs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-30
Updated: 2015-12-02
Packaged: 2018-05-04 06:08:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,190
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5323433
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/katiebuttercup/pseuds/katiebuttercup
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Half truths in the rain</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [moonlighten](https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonlighten/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Science and Practice](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3737629) by [moonlighten](https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonlighten/pseuds/moonlighten). 



> Dedicated as ever to the unparalleled moonlighten who has created a world I can see nations living and breathing in.

Disclaimer: dedicated to moonlighten and her amazing world and characters. 

This work is in need of a beta (hint hint) 

25th September, 2009; London, England

France has the flair for the dramatic, even his misery is extravagant. England approaches the figure, her feet squelching in the damp grass as she crosses to the terrace where France has sequested himself in a fit of drunken antipathy. 

It has been raining all day and although with the encroaching darkness the rain has become a drizzle, persistent enough to drive even the hardiest of drinkers back into the pub. 

The pub had seen fit to space tiny fairy lights around the garden and in amongst them France lounges creating a tiny shrine, because God forbid Francis not be the centre of attention every minute of the day. 

Next to him an outside heater casts a golden glow on the nation, England can see that his shirt has been wet through so the material has turned into a second skin. England is greatful for the darkness as she feels her cheeks colour slightly at the sight of lean muscle. 

"You're going to have to move Frog, it's chucking out time," England says. France deigns to look at her, heavy lidded and swollen eyes.

"Non," it is a simple word but France seems to pack in a thousand years of stubbornness whilst sounding like a spoiler child. He may as well have said 'I don't want to and you can't make me' 

"One of the bouncers will be along to throw you out if you don't," England informs him without emphasis. Part of her thinks France is being difficult because he knows she can't let him get tossed out on his ear--they have to play nice for diplomacy's sake. 

"I don't care," France says in French, there is a nasal quality about his voice that hints at a cold. "Just leave me here"

England has heard this many times over the course of their long history, when he had been greviously wounded on the battlefield, riddled with disease and that one glorious time England had unseated him when jousting. 

England can almost hear the melodramatic music in the background. She rolls her eyes. She's tired and she wants to go to bed. 

She reaches down for France's arm to wrap around her shoulders but France resists and instead England finds her own hand trapped between France's. His grip is gentle but secure. He is staring at their entwined fingers. 

She desperately tries not to notice how warm and supple France's fingers are against hers. 

Something akin to panic eases it's way down England's spine. She's not used to this touch. She doesn't dislike it enough. 

France turns her hand over and presses a gentle, gentlemanly kiss to the palm of her hand. The whiskers of his beard tickles the sensitive skin. She can feel the imprint of his lips after he moves away. 

"What was that in aid of?" England demands, trying to cover her disquiet.

France is looking at her but his gaze feels penetrating, it is not a look two nations with their history give each other.

England feels as if her clothes are being stripped away, but it's not sexual. Or, England thinks, it's not just sexual.

France looks at her, eye to eye and there is no where for her to hide. 

"Why has it never been the right time for us, Angleterre"

There is something in his tone she doesn't like. Something that stirs something in her.

England stiffens her spine, "because I dislike you and find your advances repugnant and you have been in love with my brother for more than half our lives" she can say it in her sleep although only two are true. Maybe.

France's mouth twists into a sneer of distaste. "I have never been in love with Scotland."

Three lies then. 

England wants to bite back with, "you're doing a bloody good imitation of it then" but doesn't. Her heart feels heavy, with regret, and anger and guilt. 

She remembers fleetingly Scotland's haunted face when she had met him after he had left France's bed. Like he had left part of himself in the sheets with France. 

"Scotland might feel differently," England says and hopes she's not betraying her brother. But France has to know. Right? 

"If he does, he's a fool," France spits. He sounds more angry and malicious then England has heard in a long time. But he's not sure it's all directed at Scotland. "I have never promised him anything. Not one thing. Not ever. I don't know where you and your brother have got that ridiculous idea from. After everything Pays de Galles said yesterday-" 

He cuts himself off. The colour rises to his cheeks and he bites the inside of his cheek. 

"What?" England demands when France seems determined to remain silent. "What could Wales have said to make you so upset?"

"I'm not upset" the truculent child is back, "I'm just tired. Have you any idea how exhausting it is? Fighting the same battle for centuries, and all the while knowing that you will likely have to give up some vital part of yourself when it finally does end, whether in victory or defeat?"

England doesn't. She's sure. It's one of the advantages of being selfish. Talking to France like this is dangerous. They are both far too exposed and England feels too much right now. 

"If you're tired you should go to bed, I'm sure your hotel room is much more comfortable. Tomorrow is another day"

England says coaxingly. The way she had spoken to her colonies when they had been small.

France laughs but there is no humour in it. He claps sarcastically. "Clever Angleterre," he says. He gathers himself up, "I don't see how they could be worse"


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Advice

In hindsight England should probably have seen the kiss coming, although she doubts that France had any designs to do so. There is a slickness to France's usual seduction that is missing and England has watched him play nations and humans throughout their long history together. Only with her brother has France seemed to alter his normal behaviour. 

She doesn't know whether it is because France feels differently for Scotland then his other lovers or simply that Scotland would not react well to France's usual advances. 

The kiss is borne of desperation, France is searching for something but England isn't sure what it is. His fingers move to her face, gently, finger easing down the bridge of England's nose, over the curve of her cheeks. She wonders if he can see the echo of her brother in her features. 

"Still the wrong sibling," England says, not unkindly. 

France's sigh rattles at the back of his throat, "that used to matter a lot less, I think" France says, he rests his forehead against hers. England can feel the slickness of the rain on his skin. France pulls away-a million miles in an arms length away embrace. They don't speak until the lift reaches its destination.

The journey down the hallway seems to take twice as long as normal, France's steps are surer then they had been at the pub but England keeps her grip as secure. There are a handful of times in the past when they had relied on each other in such a manner, the last time had been after Francis had been liberated after Ludwig's bosses had had their fun with him. 

England watches him fumble with his key card and after a few moments takes the card from him and opens the door. France pauses on the threshold, bracing the other arm on the door jam and ineffectively slapping the wall in an attempt to find a light switch. England ducks beneath France's arm and finds the light switch in a second. 

France manages to stumble towards the large bed in the middle of the room. Without any of his inherent grace France flopped headfirst onto the bed. England watches the muscles of his back twitch as he breathes. 

She couldn't let him sleep like that.

"Have you got any nightwear you can change into?" England prompts when France makes no other attempt at moving, he'll sleep like that just to spite her. 

"Pajamas perhaps?" England says, as she scans the room for them. 

"No," France says bluntly. 

No, of course not. England huffs to herself. Well no good deed went unpunished. 

"Well you can't sleep like that," England tells him, "and I have no desire to take them off you or watch you do it yourself so..." She glimpses a door and starts towards it, "I'll get you a glass of water. You'd better be under those covers when I get back" it's less then a threat then she would like but this whole night had thrown her through a loop. 

France's head bobs which England takes as a yes and beats a hasty retreat to the bathroom. 

England turns on the light, the bathroom is tiny compared to the bedroom but England feels more comfortable in the tiny space. She glances at the many bottles and other...things scattered around the space. France's apartment is exactingly neat-which England approves of. 

However anywhere else France had the tendency to claim every surface as his own. It was a fitting analogy for his personality. 

England picks up the glass on the sink- France must have used it earlier and puts it underneath the tap. She counts to 100 before returning to the bedroom. 

There is a pile of clothing on the floor but he's still wearing a wet shirt. England tugs at the covers till France moves and she tosses the covers over him. 

"Shirt off!" England commands. France obeys and England tosses it in the general direction of the other clothes. 

"Would you stay here with me tonight?" France addresses the pillow. 

They had shared a bed as children under Rome, and had spent nights staring at the stars in fields of flowers with Belgium. 

The last time they had shared a bed or what could have passed as one, was in the trenches, and they had been so tired that they could have slept in the middle of no mans land. 

"I most certainly will not," England said. 

There was a suspicious watery sounding sniff from the bed. "I dislike sleeping alone"

'Perhaps if you slept alone a bit more you wouldn't be in this mess,' England thought. 

"I'm afraid you'll just have to get used to it," England said.

"I'm already used to it. Familiarity hasn't made it any more pleasant, though."

England has no answer. She wants to snap, 'how do you think Scotland feels' but she simply offers the other nation the water glass as he sits up.He obediently drinks although his handsome face wrinkles in disgust. 

"Go, then," he says after he's drained the glass. "I'll see you in the morning."

England turns to obey but France's next words stop her ""Wait," he says. "Please, wait a moment, Angleterre. I wanted to ask you..."

England waits, France's face is shadowed by his hair. He clears his throat but when he speaks his voice cracks under the weight of his question. "How is Écosse faring?"

it's still a strange sensation, the anger on her brother's behalf but It's there. The night Scotland had phoned her was still sharp in her memory. Scotland had phoned her instead of Wales who was his default list. England was fairly certain she didn't even make the list. 

"You spent long enough wining and dining Wales yesterday, couldn't you have asked him then?" England says, because out of all of them Wales is the one that will give the answer France wants. 

"I did ask," France says. "And he answered. I can't be sure that... I would rather hear it from you, as you're less likely to want to spare my feelings than Pays de Galles."

"That's true." England says. She doesnt know what to think of France digging, and why he was doing it now. "But I want to play messenger between you even less." 

England waits until France meets her gaze. "But if you're really that worried you should ask him."

"I...." France's face is hidden, chin tucked to his chest, "Écosse will no longer answer my calls or reply to my emails."

England wonders how long it had been since France had had to try so hard. 

"Well try something else," England says, "or take the hint and leave him alone." Scotland's advice rises to the forefront of her mind. "Shit or get off the pot," maybe it's France's turn to mull that over.

"'Shit or get off the pot'?" France repeats, a faint wisp of laughter lightening his tone. "Eloquently put, Angleterre."

England shrugs, "it's Scotland's advice, if that will make you any more inclined to take it."

England waits but France's face is a mask, he is as still and quiet as England has ever known him. 

When it becomes clear that France has nothing more to say England makes for the door. France doesn't stop her.


End file.
